


blue

by Lysaanderr



Category: TwoSet, Twosetviolin, Video Blogging RPF, twoset violin
Genre: Adult!Brett, Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:14:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27505900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysaanderr/pseuds/Lysaanderr
Summary: To think that all those years could be folded up and put in a cardboard box that wasn't even his.
Kudos: 8





	blue

**Author's Note:**

> A drabble simply based off the shirt Eddy wore in a few old videos like "How to Serenade a Girl with the Violin".

He trails his hand over the edge of cardboard box, and then sneezes. A cloud of dust _whooms_ up into the air as his hand spasms with the sneeze and smacks into the side of the box. 

A few pointed stares zoom in on him and he ducks his head sheepishly, shoulders lifting around his ears. He sneaks a peek around as the disapproving stares slowly start to swivel away. 

The poorly-lit garage is packed with boxes and racks, and even the lawn he tromped past to get in here was strewn with shabby furniture and knickknacks.

He didn't really intend to buy anything; he had seen the GARAGE SALE signs a few streets down and followed them here out of sheer boredom. It was nice anyway, being back in the neighborhood he grew up in, wandering along houses that haven't changed much since the 1930s. 

His eyes drop back to the dusty box. A hasty CLOTHES is scrawled on the side of the box and what looks like a gaudy houndstooth trench coat lay folded on the top of a pile of clothes. He slides the back of his knuckles along the fabric, drawing lines in a layer of dust that had settled. The trenchcoat slips to the side a little, and something catches his eye. A hint of dark blue. 

He leans over the box and peers further in, gently lifts away the stacked clothes to get at what he's looking for. He stares at it for a while, sets the other clothes aside in a daze. He places his palm flat over the shirt he uncovered, a simple shirt with a simple pattern—checkered squares of blue and grey.

It's soft against the splay of his fingers, his cushion of his palm. He closes his eyes briefly and almost imagines or maybe remembers the warm heat of skin beneath the shirt, a scrunched up nose and freckled cheeks, shoddily dyed brown highlights framing wide eyes looking down at him.

"Ya gonna take that?" 

His eyes snap open and his head jerks around for the voice—it belongs to a lanky man standing behind him and eyeing him with bemused look on his face. There's a camera hanging from the man's neck, and another is nestled, snug, against his hip in a sturdy camera saddle.

The stranger jerks his chin at the shirt.

"Well?"

He jumps a little at the man's repeated inquiry and looks down at the shirt.

_Here_ , he wants to say but he finds he's just standing there, unmoving. He wants to hand it over, wants to be the one to do it, this simple action of shifting his hand away, even picking it up and proffering this sacrifice of, what, he doesn't know. 

It's ridiculous. _That_ he does know. It belonged to a stranger and there are probably hundreds of identical shirts out there on unfamiliar backs, buttons smoothed by unknown hands, collars tugged straight with unseen smiles. 

He nods mutely and the man takes it. 

It had been so easy. 

The man reached over and whisked it from him, and then was gone, puttering toward the depths of the garage and vanishing behind a crooked bookshelf.

His arms dangle by his sides now, half-hovering and not quite at ease; his hands are empty but they feel so heavy. He thinks that if he lowered his arms completely, he'd lower his knees to the ground, lie down, and never get up again. 

A sharp _ting_ rings in the distance—a piano.

It sinks into him, settles the tension in his shoulders. He doesn't know what note it is and he almost turns to ask but of course, there _is_ no one to ask. 

He exhales noisily, and then sneezes again. More glares come his way and he shuffles out the garage and back into the light. 

The brightness makes his eyes water, or so he tells himself. He squints up at the sky and stretches his arms overhead, flexes his fingers. A deep breath. The air is crisp and sharp, the dwindling cool of spring just turning to the edge of summer. 

He walks away, away from the dust and the dark and the past and the single unknown piano note left thrumming in his ear. 


End file.
